


A Pretty Calm Life

by Army C (arh581958)



Series: #GallavichWeek [20]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol, Beaches, Beer, Bi-ligual Mickey, Canon-Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Day 6 - Mexico, Drug-Use, Drugs, Fix-It, GW2017B, Gallavich, Gallavich Week, Gallavich Week 2017, Hammocks, Hostals, M/M, Mexico, Mickey Speaks Spanish, Mickey in Mexico, Outs boys finally talk, Post-Break-Up, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Mexico, Racial slurs, Season 8 compliant, Spanish, Talking, Violence, Weed, boys fight it out, boys finally using words, break-up, brief references to previous gallavich scenes, cursing, open-ended, words are a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:39:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: Mickey'd gone and set-up shop in Mexico. Not the drug-kind. Err, well, notalwaysthe drug-kind. It felt more like a glorified vacation on the beach front--the kind he used to want with a certain someone but never got.Overall, life was pretty calm.--until a certain white-skinned, red-haired, green-eyed man comes back into it.





	A Pretty Calm Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gallavich Week 2017 B Day 6 - Mexico
> 
> Warnings: **Not Beta Read**. Open for volunteers.   
>  -Biases expressed by the characters are only for their characterization and do not reflect/represent the author's views.

Mickey found that after getting past the language barrier, Mexico proved to be quite pleasant. He used the money Ian gave him to venture down South. The father away, the better. Eventually, he found himself in a small quiet fishing town near the border of Guatemala. He had always wanted to go see the beach. It was somehow kind of fitting.

El Gancho was absolutely—not at all like Hollywood depicted it to be; dilapidated towns, unfinished houses, stuck in the time of cowboys. No, it wasn’t like that at all. Nothing like the concrete jungle of Chicago. There were rocky sand-filled roads, most one-storey houses, and so many dogs. Only one main street connected the town to the rest of Mexico. It was semi-isolated and perfect for someone who wanted to get away.

Most of the money from Ian was spent just by getting here. Then with what he had left, he bought-out the bored-looking owner of a small hostal on the beach front. It wasn’t legal or anything. He just paid the guy to fuck-off and leave, then took a seat behind the counter. The guy had shit bookkeeping skills—a skill Mickey had learned long ago from drug-running. He spent a whole week shifting through every document, another week to take inventory, and yet another to get everything in order. By his first month, he fixed all the lights, the pipes, and the wifi.

Business was always kind of slow. He had five rooms on the property, excluding his own; a single room, a 4-person dorm with 2 bunk beds, a family room with 2 queens, and couple-room, which all had a common shower; a matrimonial suite, and a private room, both with private baths. His own small apartment was on the second floor. It had just a living room slash kitchen, his bedroom, and a bath. On a regular weekday, he’d have most of the rooms free except for the occasional backpacker trying to cross to Guatemala. That suited him just fine.

Fridays, things always picked up. Locals came from towns like Miguel Almán, La Herradura, and Cuahtémoc. Sometimes, folks came from farther towns like La Libertad, Suchiate, or even farther. It didn’t matter much. Locals to him all looked the same. He don’t care how racist that sounds. None of them had white skin, red hair, or green eyes.

Life was pretty calm.

Drugs, or course, were still in the picture. He spent most of his quote-unquote _off-days_ swinging on a hammock that overlooked the beach, smoking a joint with a cooler of cold beer beside him. Really, being here was like a glorified holiday. It was pretty much the same as Chicago except for the weather. Salty air brushes passed, blowing bangs in his face. He wore it loose now. A tank top and board shorts replaced his ripped shirts and rugged jeans. It was one of the ways to combat the afternoon heat—that or weed.  

_Buzz!_

The buzzer alerted him of someone at the counter. He groaned. The buzzing of his skin had only just begun. What a high killer. His eyes weren’t even starting to sting yet. It was just the weird prickly feeling creeping across the hairs on his skin. He had half the mind to just wait for the person to leave when the buzzer rang again.

_Buzz! Buzz!_

Whoever the guy was, he was persistent as fuck.

“Alright, fuck!” Mickey groaned, finally throwing his legs of the hammock. His feet landed on bare wood. The world spin for half a second. It was off-putting. He finished off his joint and beer before shuffling down the bamboo stairs. A pair of slippers awaited him at the landing. There was a curtain of seashells that hid the small landing space from the lobby. If he could barely see beyond the shelly cove, then no one on the other side could see beyond the shadows.

_Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!_

“ _De putas_ ,” he grumbled, brushing back the curtain whilst stepping out. He’d been doing more and more of that Spanish thing since coming here. It was kind-of a way in for the locals. They’d give him enough street cred. “Oh _kayate_. I heard you the first time… si, como esta. Que the fuck tu quie—” The spiel he’d memorized after a year of running the place rested on the tip of his tongue, but it died, “—Gallagher?”

Ian stood there in front of the counter—pale skin nearly burst to a crisp, literally red-in-the-face, wearing a dingy orange shirt that clung to his body with sweat. He looked like he hadn’t showered in a few days. His normally vibrant red hair was matted down with oil, his skin looked painful, and his finger drummed in the wooden surface nervously.

“Uhm, hey, Mick,” his voice sounded rough but relieved. His big green doe eyes stared at Mickey like the older man was Christ’s second coming. “ _Thank god._ I finally found you.”

A small shy smile formed on Ian’s lips—one that made all sorts of deeply buried feelings rise-up like a tsunami inside Mickey. The wave crashed, drowning him in cold water. It felt like it was drowning him. The world felt off-balance. His feet were unsteady beneath him. Mickey gripped the countertop tight.

Instincts kicked in faster than his own brain. He was, after all, still a Southie through and through. There was a loud crunch then a sharp pain on his knuckles, before he realized that he’d swung. The punch propelled his whole body forward until he’d lunged over the top. .

Ian fell gracelessly to the floor. A hand clutched his body nose, unprepared for the onslaught aimed at him.

“What da fuck are ya doin’ere, Gallagher? In fuckin’ Mexico!” Mickey yelled, gripping Ian by the dirty collar. The faded black tattoo pressed against the orange fabric. It felt dusty under his fingertips. His eyes began to sting. He couldn’t tell if it was from the weed or something else.

“What’ya think?” Ian grumbled, sounding off from holding his nose. Blood covered the back of his hand—red on his darkly tanned skinned. Everything about it screamed like he’s been walking under the sun for days without end. “I thought it’d be obvious. I came looking for you, asshole. You’re a hard man to find. Do you how fuckin’ hard it was to get here?”

“Of course t’was fuckin’ hard’ta find me! I’m a fucking fugitive, Ian. That’s what I was’possed to do.” Mickey kept his voice tight. His jaw clenched. Inside, a storm of emotions brewed—dark and powerful. But, slowly, he loosened his grin and let go. “You can’t stay here. You need to leave.”

Ian whined like a kicked puppy. His fingers bloody fingers wrapped around Mickey’s pale wrist.

“No,” he pleaded. Those big green eyes stared up at Mickey with intense desperation. His lose sported a new ridge and was profusely bleeding. “No, Mick, please, I just got here—ouch, fuck. I think you broke my nose, fucker.”

“Then goddamn set it, you moron. You’re a fucking medic-guy now aren’t you?”

“I’ve never set my own nose before, alright!” Ian glared from the floor. Hands left Mickey’s in favor of touching his nose. “Even if I do get into fights, I never let them get my face.” He gingerly touched the bridge of his nose. A small bump formed in the middle of it. “The last time was— _fuck._ ”

Mickey chewed in the edge of his thumb. Curiosity got the better of him. He unconsciously sat back on top of Ian’s legs. “Was what?”

Ian lowered his gaze, looking to the side. “You. Back on the baseball field. Except last time, you kissed me after. Roughing it up always made us hot. Couple of sick psychos: you and I. I remember having felt _something_ again back then, after a really long time. Now, even you weak-ass punch felt like a ball chain.”

“Fuck you, _de puta, chuk-cha tu madre_ even if she’s fucking dead!” Mickey spat, sitting further back, ass pressing against Ian’s lower half.

Ian lifted his head. There was a sly little smile playing on his lips—a _come get me_ look. “Yeah. Okay.”

The floodgate opened.

Mickey launched himself again. His fists flew, rapid fire, hitting anything he could hit. He wasn’t aiming. All he wanted was for it to hurt—for Ian to hurt as much as Ian had hurt him. But, their hurts were different. The bruises would heal within a week but the one in his heart was still bleeding. He used his fists to communicate what he couldn’t say.

_Fuck you_

_Asshole_

_You’re a fucking coward_

_You left_

_You abandoned me_

_\--when I needed you most_

“Mickey stop!”

Ian fought back, of course. He wouldn’t be Southie if he didn’t. Arms came up to cover his face again. Legs kicked out from other Mickey. The older man above him struggled to stay on, legs on either side of him, Mickey’s full weight on top of him. The hits came on and on, wave after wave, again and again, bruising his raised arms.

“Shut up!” Mickey shot back, arms stuttering. “Shut up you motherfucker!”

“Mickey!” Ian shouted. Hands shot out to capture Mickey’s—bloody knuckles mixed with brown patches from his nose bleed.

Mickey jerked in the grip, snarling. “Let go. I’m not finished!”

Ian flipped them over, trapping Mickey’s hands to his chest. “Mickey! Stop! You’re causing a ruckus!”

“Ayy, fuck you, asshole!”

Mickey heaved once, then kneed Ian between the legs. Ian howled in pain. Mickey rolled them again. He Ian pinned underneath him. Everything hurt. His knuckles. His head. His heart. The weed wasn’t doing much help. If anything, it intensified the throbbing—like his heart was doing a million miles a minute. He was about to burst from his skin.

White knuckles curled into Ian’s bloody orange shirt, lifting the redhead up. Ian was here—beat bloody and broken but _here_. He hadn’t know he was tearing up until he saw a drop fall on Ian’s face.  

“Fuck you!” He spat one more time before dumping Ian. That was it. He was done. “Get out,” he barked, fist pressing hard on Ian’s clavicle. An ice-cold claw dug into his chest. “Fuck off and leave me alone. Don’t make me say it again.”

There was shuffling as he walked away. He didn’t look back. Two steps up the stairs, he heard Ian’s reply;

“No.”

It hung in the stilled air. Not a breath passed.

Mickey squeezed the wooden handrail, willing his emotions down. Fuck, his eyes strung like a motherfucker. He felt drained down to his bones. The weed, the beer, and the exhaustion sucked out all of his energy. His body swayed where he stood. Heavy steps game from behind. He smelled Ian’s sweat then bloodied burnt arms wrapped around him.

“Mickey,” Ian whispered into his ear, “I’m sorry for not coming to you sooner.”

Mickey shrugged him off. “Tch. Yeah. Do whatever the fuck you want. I’m crashing.” He lugged his legs up the rest of the way, uncaring now if Ian followed. The tears stung. He thought he’d cried all he could cry during his first month in solitude. It apparently wasn’t the case. They burned his eyes. He hated himself a little for it.

His bed was nothing special—a beat-up mattress on a bamboo frame with pale striped sheets. He collapsed on the bed, staring that the ceiling. It took a while for his heartbeat to calm down. His head felt dull, his mouth dry, and his whole body weighed like lead. He could hear Ian rummaging outside his bedroom.

Then, after an eternity, the door to his room opened. Ian walled in, nose set and cleaned. His shirt was gone. He kept his eyes entirely on Mickey. Eyes searching for any signs of rejection. They didn’t move even as he discarded his pants. Neither did Mickey when Ian crawled to his side. He curled himself above Mickey’s head, fingers lightly removing the bangs from Mickey’s face.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

Mickey finally closed his eyes, hoping this wasn’t all a dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be nice~ One of the reasons why I love writing for this fandom is because of the feedback that I get. It doesn't have to be long or inspiring. I'm constantly trying to improve how I write—be it grammar, plot, or characters. I'd appreciate it. :) 
> 
> ***  
>  **If you have a prompt or an idea, you can[INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~**
> 
> **As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).**


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